


The Kindness of Strangers

by theOestofOCs



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (is it only his second? jon gets kidnapped too many times i can't keep track), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has a Bad Time, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Lotioning, Now With More Comfort, canon-typical suffering archivist, content warnings listed in each chapter, i am once again neglecting multiple fics in favour of thinking about timothy stoker, jon and tim repair their broken friendship challenge, jon's second kidnapping goes slightly differently, there is no sexual content but i'm still tagging it 'm' because. lotioning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29569440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theOestofOCs/pseuds/theOestofOCs
Summary: It was easier to treat Jon like a monster when he wasn’t shivering against his back, brokenly humming—wait, was that…“Are you trying to do ‘Hey, Jude’?” Tim demanded.Jon stopped, stiffening. “Mm hrmh mm mmh hm,” he said defensively.“You really can’t hold a tune, can you, boss?”*It was just an ordinary walk to a restaurant. Tim had insisted that if they were going to talk, there would be no tape recorders or weird Archives ghosts listening in. A bit of fresh air wouldn’t kill him, Tim had said. What could go wrong?By the time Jon spots the white delivery van, it’s much too late.The Stranger kidnaps Jon. Tim comes along for the ride.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 212
Kudos: 340





	1. Crossfire

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for writing this, except that I needed it for Reasons. Don't look at me I'm processing things pay no attention to the author behind the curtain
> 
> Anyway I just need Jon and Tim to hug even if it takes 10k to do it (and this fic is fully prewritten. It will take 10k. It will be worth it.) (I just hope I don't break and write a sequel before the end of the week)
> 
> As always, see endnotes for chapter warnings

Georgie had made Jon promise to at least try reaching out to the others, so here he was, awkwardly making conversation with Tim on the sidewalk as they walked towards Tim’s chosen restaurant. Tim had grudgingly agreed to a proper chat with Jon—he suspected Martin might have had something to do with that—on the condition that it take place in “neutral territory.” Jon had briefly considered bringing a tape recorder along, just in case, but he knew better than to really entertain the thought. Tim had the right to his own boundaries, even if they did seem more counterproductive than anything. 

“So,” Jon said stiffly. “How has it been operating under Elias’ new management system?”

Tim snorted. “Hell,” he clipped. “Not that you’d know, would you, boss?”

Jon tried to resist the urge to rub his forehead. Why did Georgie think this was a good idea, again? “Yes, funnily enough, being falsely accused of murder wreaks havoc with one’s schedule,” he muttered. Tim had the decency to look vaguely ashamed. “I’m… hoping to be in the office more often from now on, though,” Jon offered after a moment. “If you’re so inclined, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a heads up about whatever the situation may be.”

Tim cracked a grin. It looked almost real. “Not a chance,” he drawled. 

Jon sighed. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“’Scuse us,” rumbled a voice from behind them. 

“Are either of you Jonathan Sims?”

Jon and Tim turned together, and saw two enormous figures looming far too close at their backs. They were thick and tall, dressed like deliverymen, and they both looked exactly like you’d expect. Jon abruptly realized that there was a white van parked directly beside them.

“Oh, sh—run,” Jon breathed. “Tim, run!”

Tim’s eyes widened with the same realization, too late. 

“Just grab both of ’em,” one of the figures decided. Somehow, though Jon could swear they’d been walking on a crowded city street moments ago, there was no one near them—no one around to witness the fight that ensued. It wasn’t much of one, in Jon’s case. Tim put up a bit more of a struggle, he thought, though it was hard to tell once Jon got his head knocked against the van’s door. Everything was a bit blurry for a while after that. 

When his vision cleared, Tim was across from him, bruises already beginning to bloom across his cheekbone in the dingy light of the delivery van. Like Jon, his arms had been roughly bound together with what seemed to be strips of dirty linen. He didn’t look half as scared as Jon felt. Tim looked _furious._ He was still shouting as the engine started up and they began to move. 

Between Jon and Tim lay a coffin, bound up with chains. Jon couldn’t see the lid from where he sat, but he had a feeling he knew what words were scratched into it with a desperate hand. He drew his knees up closer to his chest, trying as hard as he could not to touch it as the van bounced them all on its way.

Breekon and Hope didn’t seem at all bothered by Tim’s continued noisemaking, and after a while, his voice started to grow raw and he fell silent. The rattle of the van’s motion almost drowned out the faint, eerie humming that seemed to rise from the depths to replace Tim’s shouts. Almost, but not quite. 

Finally, for the first time since the very beginning of the evening, Tim met Jon’s eyes. Jon saw his own fear reflected there.

Tim looked away. “Did you hear what they said?” he asked in a harsh whisper. 

Jon tried to concentrate, but as far as he knew the only thing they’d said aloud was his name. He shook his head.

“They said ‘Miss Orsinov wants to see you,’” Tim informed him. “They said she’d ‘changed her mind.’ What the hell does that mean?”

Jon’s breath caught. No, _no, not yet,_ he thought. _Not now, it’s too soon, I just need a little more time—_

“Jon!” Tim hissed.

“It means they’re,” Jon swallowed. “They’re here for my skin.”

Like a switch flipping, Tim’s face went grey. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jon whispered. “Oh, God. Tim, I’m so sorry. I should never have—you shouldn’t be here.” His breath was coming faster. _Think._ “I can—next time the car stops, I’ll distract them and you run, there’s only the two of them right now, it should be safe enough if—”

“Shut up, Jon,” Tim interrupted, eyes distant. “You know that won’t work. This is just how it’s going to go.” He broke off, muttering something too quiet for Jon to catch. “How long has the Circus been after you?”

“Nikola paid me a visit at Georgie’s, er,” Jon counted it out, “four days ago. That was largely why I moved out, it wasn’t safe for her, but then I promised to at least try and keep in touch with other people and now—”

“Yeah, the _one_ time your stupid lone hero complex could’ve actually come in handy,” Tim agreed. Jon was too tired to argue. “Hey,” Tim added, tone shifting towards something that almost bordered on gentle. “Look, it’s… it’s gonna be fine. Your evil eye god won’t let the Stranger get you, right? You’re safe. Or, like, as safe as soul-sucking magic powers can make anyone.”

Jon flexed his burned hand, still tender to the touch. His experiences seemed to point in the opposite direction, but he wasn’t about to argue. “Which is why you should—”

“It won’t work, Jon,” Tim cut him off. “Drop it.”

Jon dropped it. 

Thanks to the blow to his head, Jon didn’t have much of an idea of how long they went on driving. Eventually, though, the van pulled to a stop. Jon tensed, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Tim do the same. 

The door slid open, and Jon caught a glimpse of moonlight. He didn’t get the chance to take in much beyond that, though. Rough hands grabbed him, throwing him over a shoulder hard enough to steal his breath. By the time he got his bearings again they were inside a dimly-lit building, strange shapes with features Jon couldn’t quite make out standing along the walls, with a single chair propped up in the middle of the room. Moments later, Tim appeared beside him, spitting curses and sporting a fresh welt on his forehead. 

“What’s this?” Jon went cold at the sound of the voice drifting across the room. He stared, trying to figure out which of the oddly human figures that crowded in the corners was Nikola. “Really, you two are _too_ generous! I wasn’t expecting a matched pair!”

“Weren’t sure which was the Archivist,” Breekon said, setting down his end of the coffin. 

“Grabbed both of ’em, to be safe,” Hope finished. 

“How thoughtful,” Nikola purred, and stepped forward. Her featureless face grew clearer as she drew close. She flicked a finger at Jon. “This one’s my Archivist. Now. What shall we do with the spare?”

Hope (if it was Hope; Jon had been rather arbitrarily assuming which was which based on whoever spoke first) shrugged, nudging the casket with his foot. “Coffin’s always hungry.”

Jon sucked in a breath, but before he could say anything Nikola made a disapproving noise. “You _know_ how I feel about that thing,” she said, a hint of real animosity leaking into her tone. “I don’t want it in my home. It’s not _nice.”_

It was Breekon’s turn to shrug. “Sorry, Miss Orsinov.”

She sighed irritably. Then, abruptly, her entire torso swivelled forward—almost like a dancer dipping into a bow, almost graceful, but not quite, so very _wrong_ —and she bent until her face was inches away from Tim’s. “He does have nice skin, I suppose,” she hummed. “Such a shame about the scars—” she poked one on Tim’s jaw, and he made an inarticulate sound of fury “—but on him they almost look fashionable, don’t you think? Like wearing some nice ripped jeans. He’ll do, I suppose.”

“No!” Jon burst out. He couldn’t think. Everything was happening too fast, he had to get out of this, had to get _Tim_ out of this, _think, Sims._ “Let—let him go, and I’ll cooperate. I’ll tell you where to find your skin—”

Nikola swerved to look at him, and he stuttered to a halt. “Oh, you silly,” she crooned. “I don’t care about my lovely relic anymore. You see, originally, I was just planning to have you followed in case you found it, and if you didn’t come through, well, then I’d just take you instead! After all, you’re quite powerful yourself, and more than that, you’re, well, _symbolically_ appropriate, don’t you think? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized… you know, have you ever had one of those backup plans that are just more _fun?”_ She chuckled. “So, I thought, out with the old, in with… well, in with the _you!”_

Jon tamped down on his terror. He knew this, he’d _known this,_ he didn’t have time to panic about it now. “Fine,” he gasped out. “Fine, then I’ll—I’ll cooperate with whatever you have planned,” Tim started to protest, but Jon steamrolled over him, “just _let him go._ You won’t need to—skin him, after the Unknowing you’ll have everything anyway, right? Let him go, and I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Oh, _Archivist.”_ Nikola’s voice was dripping with pity, poorly layered over her amusement. “You talk like you have any choice in the matter at all.”

_No no no no,_ oh, God, if there was ever a time for the Eye to do what Elias said it could— _“What do I need to say to make you let him—”_

The static on Jon’s tongue cut out sharply as a thick hand clamped over his mouth. 

“My goodness, you’re a rude little thing,” Nikola exclaimed. Tim snorted. Jon jerked his head over as far as he could with Breekon-or-Hope’s arm around his neck, glaring. Tim looked ghostly pale in the dim light, but he met Jon’s gaze and snorted again when he saw the look he was getting. 

Jon would have felt more betrayed if he couldn’t see how hard Tim was shaking. 

“Thank you,” Nikola said, and Jon snapped his attention back to her. She was accepting a length of dirty fabric from whichever deliveryman wasn’t gripping Jon’s head, and shook it out like an acrobat starting a ribbon routine. Then she lunged forward, and before Jon could register more than terror at the feeling of cold plastic hands touching his face, she’d shoved part of it in his mouth and wrapped the rest twice around his head, tying it in the back with a flourish. “There! No more nasty questions from _you.”_

The fabric covered Jon’s nose as well as his mouth. He thrashed, trying and failing to inhale.

“Hey!” Tim shouted. “He can’t breathe!”

“Hm?” Nikola looked at him for a long moment before turning her attention back to Jon. “Oh, I suppose you’re right.” With careless leisure, she reached forward, and Jon was too desperate not to go still at her touch. He let her run her finger down the bridge of his nose until finally, _finally_ it caught the fabric where it folded and tugged it down far enough for him to suck in a breath. Immediately, he jerked backwards, doing his best to growl through the gag.

Nikola ignored him, looking at Tim again consideringly. “I suppose that _is_ a point, though, isn’t it? This,” she tapped Jon’s face through the cloth, and he pulled further back, “is going to _have_ to come off sometimes. I don’t _really_ need another costume yet, and it _might_ be good to have a backup. Alright, Archivist! You can keep your assistant for now. Ask a single question more, and we’ll skin him straight away and then I’ll wear him in front of you. Ooh, now _there’s_ an idea…”

“What, you think that would upset Jon?” Tim scoffed, voice shaking slightly. “Nah. We’ve hated each other’s guts for ages, now. Only reason he wants to keep me alive is because he thinks it’d look bad for him to kill off another assistant. D’you know how many times Jon’s been accused of murder in the past six months alone?”

“Oh,” Nikola said, sounding disappointed. “Fine, then. You play nice, and I won’t kill your assistant. Now—oh!” She stopped as her foot sent something clattering along the floor. “What’s this?”

It was a tape recorder. 

“What the hell, Jon,” Tim muttered. Jon stared. He _hadn’t_ brought one along, though. He’d specifically decided it was a bad idea. How was it here?

“Does it work?” Nikola asked. She pressed “play” a few times, to no avail, before hitting “record.” “Oh!” She giggled. “It _does_ work! How fun! Who’s on the other end, Archivist? Is it your Elias who listens?”

“If that isn’t the six-dollar question,” Tim griped quietly. It was Jon’s turn to snort.

“Hello, Elias!” Nikola chirped. “Can I call you Elias? Now, I know you can’t actually see this. What’s the point of having a secret place of power if it’s not perfectly hidden from a big, stupid eye? So, let me paint you a picture. I have your Archivist—well, not _yours._ He’s mine now, and you can’t have him back! He’s here with his assistant. I was going to tie him to a chair, but now that there’s _two_ of them it doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it? That’s all right, I’ll just ask Sarah to bring in some of those nails she was so excited to use.” She laughed at the looks on their faces. “I’m just joking, sillies. Well, maybe. Anyway, they’re here in a room that’s just _filled_ with waxworks. Not good waxworks, though. _Weird_ ones. Those are the best kind, aren’t they? Where you can _almost_ recognize who it’s supposed to be, but there’s something just a _bit_ off! Oh, it’s downright uncanny!”

“There’s also a giant coffin in the middle of the floor,” Tim put in dryly. Nikola huffed.

“Yes, that,” she agreed reluctantly. “It shouldn’t be there, though. Would you two _please_ move it somewhere—just, very far away from here!”

“Not really,” Breekon answered.

“Needs to be near us,” Hope explained.

“Well,” Nikola snapped, “then move _yourselves_ far away!”

“Right you are.” The deliverymen hoisted it up and filed out the door at the back of the room, which fell closed behind them with a final-sounding _snick._

“Now, where was I?”

“About to let us go?” Tim suggested.

“No…” Nikola sang. “Oh! That’s right, your skins! Now, this one—” she squished Tim’s cheeks, eliciting an extremely indignant noise from him “—has _lovely_ skin, apart from the spots. _Very_ well taken care of! _You_ understand the importance of a good skin routine, don’t you?” She shook Tim’s face gently before letting go. He worked his jaw, glaring at her in silence. 

She shrugged, turning to Jon. “You, on the other hand…” She shook her head, clicking her tongue—or making the sound of it, at least. As far as Jon could see, she didn’t have a tongue to click. “Just _awful._ We’re going to have to do a _lot_ of work before you’re in _any_ condition to be peeled. Do you have a preferred brand of lotion?”

Jon attempted to convey his strenuous objections through the gag. 

“Alright, I’ll just tell them to pick up a selection,” Nikola concluded. She flung the tape recorder at the ground, and Jon flinched at the clatter. One of the batteries rolled out the back. 

“Oh, but before I go…” Nikola clapped twice, and a host of—of _things_ that looked like people ( _almost_ like people) streamed into the room, though Jon couldn’t see where they’d come from. Maybe they’d been there the whole time, hiding behind the shadowed waxworks. “You’ll find a way to keep these two tied up nice and snug, won’t you all? I don’t care how you do it, just so long as it doesn’t damage the skin!”

With that, she sailed out, disappearing into the confusion of animate mannequins and loosely-hung faces over figures that trailed sawdust and straw. 

The ensuing disaster wasn’t exactly more _horrible_ than Jon was expecting, but it was certainly more _humiliating._ At one point he was situated directly on Tim’s lap as they were both crammed into the single chair, before the horde decided that would probably cause too much chafing against both of their skins and pulled them back out. That was around when Tim started laughing. He didn’t stop until long after they were left alone, tied back-to-back by the linens that had been wrapped around their wrists again and anchored to a pike driven into the floor. 

Jon couldn’t speak, but he tried humming as comfortingly as he could manage, and suppressed the urge to flinch when Tim finally slumped back against him, silent. 

“Oh, God,” Tim whispered finally, voice cracking into the dark. “Oh, God. We really are fucked.”

Even if Jon could speak, he didn’t think there was anything left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: kidnapping; non-graphic physical violence (Jon hits his head, Tim's face gets bruised); physical restraint; death threats towards one of the main characters, and one of the main characters is briefly unable to breathe.


	2. Catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was really hard to hate Jon right now, was all. When he was acting so— _human._
> 
> Tim didn’t know what to do with a boss that was as stuck as he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The observant among you may notice that the chapter count went up. This is not because I wrote more content (I did, but we aren't acknowledging it yet), but because I am extremely bad at math and miscounted how many chapters were in my completed fic
> 
> i am a fool, but i come bearing gifts of great angst, so. you're welcome?
> 
> (Please see endnotes for chapter warnings, and read safely!)

Tim wanted to blame Jon for this. Really, he did. After all, the only reason _Tim_ was in this mess was because the Circus had been looking for Jon. He was the one who’d asked to meet up with Tim in the first place, _knowing_ there were evil clowns after him. 

It would’ve been easier to work up some anger if Jon wasn’t so damn determined to blame himself, too. 

(Tim was the one who’d insisted they meet outside the Archives, no tape recorders or spooky murderers peering over their shoulders. Jon had said he didn’t think it was safe. Tim had laughed at him.)

Sure, a lot of this was Jon’s fault. Tim wasn’t about to let anything he’d done in the past year slide. But he couldn’t bring himself to stack this one on the pile of things Jon had done to screw up his life. It was easier to blame him for things he hadn’t tried so hard to avoid.

It was easier to treat Jon like a monster when he wasn’t shivering against his back, brokenly humming—wait, was that…

“Are you trying to do ‘Hey, Jude’?” Tim demanded. 

Jon stopped, stiffening. “Mm hrmh mm mmh hm,” he said defensively. 

“You really can’t hold a tune, can you, boss?”

Jon slouched again. “Mh hmmhum mm hm mhm hmmm.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hmph.”

Tim clamped down on another laugh that tried to bubble up in his throat. He’d already had plenty of hysterics for one day. 

It was really hard to hate Jon right now, was all. When he was acting so— _human._ Tim had been halfway to convincing himself the man had been an eye-monster for as long as they’d known each other. He’d at least been sure he was too far gone by now to be the guy Tim had thought he was. He’d thought Jon had let the mask go, shown his true colours after—after Sasha. He’d thought Jon was gone, if he’d ever really been there in the first place.

If Jon wasn’t a monster, how had he known about Sasha, when Tim hadn’t? Why had he haunted _Tim_ of all people instead of the actual monsters—the not-Sasha, or Elias, or Jurgen freaking Leitner? Why did he _insist_ on using those recorders, logging those statements, doing everything the goddamn _Eye_ wanted if he wasn’t evil?

It was easier if he was a monster. 

Tim didn’t know what to do with a boss that was as stuck as he was. 

“I can’t believe you brought along a tape recorder,” he said eventually. 

“Mm hmmhm!” Jon exclaimed. More quietly, he went on, “Mm humphm. Mm hm hmhmm.”

Tim blinked. It was fun to pretend he could understand Jon’s muffled dialogue, but it sounded like he was actually trying to say something important this time. “You didn’t?” he guessed. 

“Mm-hm,” Jon agreed emphatically. “Mm hmmhm.”

“Come on, Jon,” he scoffed. His rage flared back to life, and he welcomed its return. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that. It’s right there. D’you really think, after all you’ve done, I’ll just take your word that the tape recorder, what, _magically_ appeared out of thin air?”

“Mm hmmhm,” Jon repeated helplessly. 

“Save it,” Tim growled, abruptly feeling exhausted. He leaned forward, pulling away from Jon. No matter how desperate he was for some kind of comforting touch right now, Jon couldn’t give that to him.

After a moment, he heard a scuffling sound. He resolutely refused to turn and look, even as it went on for minutes on end. If Jon wanted attention—well, tough. Tim wasn’t giving it to him.

Something plastic brushed against his hand. Tim yelped, yanking as much of himself away as he could.

“Hmmrm,” Jon mumbled as Tim contorted himself to look at what he’d felt. It was—the tape recorder?

“What are you…” Tim sagged back. “What the hell, Jon,” he repeated. 

“Hmmrm,” Jon answered. “Hm hmmnph.”

There was the click of a button, followed by the sound of a tape being rewound. The plastic nudged its way into Tim’s hands, and he twisted his head back around.

“Hmm,” Jon said, pushing it further into Tim’s grip. “Hm hm. Humrmph hrmmhm.”

“Whatever,” Tim said after a moment. He was too tired to argue with someone who couldn’t actually talk. He took the recorder and let it rewind until it clicked off, back to the beginning of the tape.

“Hm hm,” Jon said after a moment. He sounded a bit impatient. “Hmm! Hm huphmm!”

Tim sighed, taking another guess at what Jon wanted. “Really? What exactly do you think this is gonna accomplish?”

“Phumm,” Jon said, very quietly. 

“Fine. Fine! Not like there’s anything else to do here.” Tim kicked ineffectually at the polished concrete floor in front of him. Then he pressed “play.”

“—expected,” Jon’s voice echoed from the tape, sounding muffled and distant, like it was being recorded through a wall. 

“’Scuse us,” came the gravelly voice of one of the deliverymen, and Tim hit “stop” as hard as he could. He was not about to relive this evening before it had even _ended,_ thank you. 

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “So what’s your point here? You didn’t start recording until we got kidnapped? Bully for you, boss, maybe you’ll get time off for good behaviour.”

“Mm hmmhm hm hmmphm hm!” Jon protested. “Thmm hmphm mmm!”

“Look, I’m not…” Tim sighed, letting his sentence trail off. He didn’t know how he was going to finish it. Not mad? That was a lie. Not too scared to care about hating Jon right now? That was an even bigger one. “Let’s just try and get some sleep.”

“Hmph?” Jon said incredulously.

“What, d’you have any better ideas?” Tim countered. “Any brilliant insights about how we’re gonna escape right now, tonight, when we’re both exhausted and terrified and—” he cut himself off. “Because otherwise I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a kip. A bit of rest, and then maybe—maybe we’ll see something different in the morning.”

Jon huffed a bit at that, letting out a breath of air that might have been a laugh. Tim relaxed his posture, slowly leaning back until he and Jon were once again holding each other up with their shoulders. Tim tucked his chin forward, trying not to think about how uncomfortable he’d be waking up from this position—trying hard not to think about anything at all, really. 

“Good night, Jon,” he muttered. Jon hummed something back, and silence fell like a curtain between them again.

“Aren’t you _cute!”_

Jon jerked awake at Nikola’s cheery shout, screaming into the gag when he saw how close she was to his face. Behind him, Tim made a grumbling sound, shifting like he was trying to get comfortable again. Was he actually still sleeping? _Here?_

“A good night’s sleep is very important for healthy skin,” Nikola said brightly. “But do you know what’s even more important? Keeping yourself _nice_ and _moisturized.”_

A pair of her creatures appeared on either side of Jon. Both of them seemed to be of the “taxidermy” flavour of Stranger, papery skin belying the spongy feeling of their hands as they gripped Jon’s arms. 

Jon struggled, but they kept hold of him easily as Nikola reached around him to undo the knots around each of his wrists, leaving the linen where it was fastened to the pike. The stuffed skins pulled him forward, dragging him across the floor when he didn’t find his feet fast enough. 

Tim seemed to be waking up, finally. Jon wasn’t sure that was a good thing. 

“Now, the first step in any good skincare routine is to make sure you’re nice and clean,” Nikola began. “They make such wonderful products to help with that nowadays, though I don’t expect you’re particularly aware of them, are you, Archivist?” She clucked at him scoldingly. “Really, some people _don’t_ know how to appreciate a good thing.” 

A few more figures approached from the corner of Jon’s eye, and he turned to see a mannequin and two more stuffed skins hauling a basin to where Nikola stood, sloshing water on the floor as they went. 

Oh, Jon didn’t like where this was going at _all._

“Before we get started,” Nikola said as Jon eyed the mountain of lotions and soaps that were currently being brought in, “I need to make sure you remember what we talked about yesterday. When I take your gag off, what are you _not_ going to do, Archivist?”

“Hrm hmmphm,” Jon growled. He glanced over at Tim, who was currently blinking hazily at the third mannequin that had materialized with an armful of product. 

“That’s right!” Nikola tapped him on the nose, and he switched back to glaring at her. “No questions. Because if you do, you know what will happen?”

Jon nodded, staying silent this time. He knew.

“No questions if you want to keep your pretty little assistant alive,” Nikola squealed anyway. “Good, that’s out of the way. Let’s get started!”

“Jon?” Tim called, craning his neck to see where Nikola’s voice was coming from. He scooted around to face the tableau more fully when he spotted them. “Hey! What are you doing to him?”

Nikola ignored him. Of course _Tim_ was allowed to ask questions, Jon thought irritably. Not that it did him any good.

“Strip him,” Nikola ordered, and Jon’s blood froze. He hadn’t—of course, of _course_ that was where this was going, but he hadn’t—

Someone—some _thing_ roughly untied Jon’s gag as other hands tugged at the bottom of his shirt, undoing the buckle of his trousers even as he tried with more strength than he’d thought he possessed to wrench himself away. “No,” he cried as soon as the fabric was out of his mouth. “Stop— _stop it,_ don’t— _leave me alone—_ ”

“Ah, ah,” Nikola said, and the flurry of motion went still as her finger descended on Jon’s lip. “Better you don’t speak, Archivist. We wouldn’t want to risk a question slipping out, would we? _Not a word,”_ she snarled, and the protest died in Jon’s throat. “That’s better.”

She stepped back, and like clockwork, the hands on Jon resumed where they’d left off. Dimly, he realized Tim was shouting something. He couldn’t hear what it was, though, not over the sound of his pulse rushing in his ears, the _need_ to get the hands off his body, _get them off,_ get off, _let go, **stop,** don’t speak don’t speak don’t speak remember Tim remember get them **off,**_ and as his pants tangled around his ankles he became aware that the keening sound he heard in the background was coming from his throat. 

He made one last, hopeless grab for his shirt as it vanished into the roiling mass of hands-that-weren’t-hands and skin-that-wasn’t-skin, and then his feet were lifted off the floor and he was plunged into an icy bath. 

He choked at the shock of cold, trying to come up for air, but the hands were holding his face down under the surface. For a wild instant he was sure he was about to drown, naked in a makeshift bathtub surrounded by mannequins and the one employee that hated him most. Then a plastic fist yanked his head up by the hair, and he gasped in as much air as he could before he started coughing. 

Distantly, he heard Nikola chattering about the importance of washing skin daily before moisturizing, talking about the benefits of scouring dust away and keeping his pores clear. Jon didn’t pay much attention, focused on getting his breath back and trying as hard as he could to squirm away from the plastic and skin, fingers and bones and things that were neither that grasped at every piece of him and _scrubbed._

Eventually he gave up, letting his eyes unfocus as his body went limp. Every so often an inhuman noise tore itself quietly from his throat, as something dug in too hard or scrubbed places he didn’t want to think about. The scent of vanilla cleanser saturated everything.

Finally, finally, Jon was hauled out of the water and dumped unceremoniously back on the smooth concrete floor. Rough towels massaged his limbs, his head, his body front and back and _everywhere,_ and then vanished as suddenly as they appeared, leaving him crumpled and shivering. He had a moment to think it was over, that it was _done,_ before Nikola clapped her hands again. “And now we moisturize!” she exclaimed.

“No,” Jon gasped out, trying to scramble backwards, but it was no use. Nothing he did could stop her descending on him with hands covered in slime that smelled of oranges, and all his struggling did nothing to dislodge the spongy arms that pinned him to the floor. 

She started with his face, dabbing bits of cold cream on his skin before rubbing until Jon was sure he would bruise. Once she was done with his forehead and cheeks and chin, though, she kept going. Of course she kept going. 

By the time she’d reached his chest, Jon had gone limp again. He didn’t even protest when she reached the top of his thighs and ordered the stuffed skins to flip him over so she could work her way down his back. 

By the time she reached his toes, rubbing moisturizer into each one individually, he didn’t know if he’d ever move again. 

Jon felt nothing as plastic hands maneuvered him back next to Tim, a moment of rage sparking and dying within him in the same instant as they backhanded his assistant out of the way to bind Jon’s hands again at the stake. 

Jon felt _nothing._ Nothing except a dull, all-consuming hatred for himself, weak and stupid and useless as he was.

The hands withdrew, Strangers vanishing from the room along with the bath, the supplies, and presumably also Jon’s clothes. Jon watched blankly as Nikola bent forward again to press the lower part of her face against his forehead, an awful parody of a kiss. “You were _so_ good today, Archivist,” she praised. “We’ll have your skin in tip-top condition in no time.”

“Hey!” 

Jon’s vision blurred as Nikola jerked backwards, out of the way of a flailing kick. “Get away from him,” Tim growled.

Nikola just laughed, tapping him on the nose as she stood up. “Oh, you’re a _funny_ one,” she giggled. “Don’t worry, Archivist, your assistant can’t keep me away. I’ll see you again tomorrow. It’s important to keep up a routine!”

Jon felt himself slipping further away at her words, until half of him couldn’t parse what she meant. He pretended none of him had understood. It was easier that way.

Nikola sashayed off, disappearing into the shadows until Jon was as sure as he could ever be that they were alone. 

It didn’t matter. Jon felt nothing.

Jon felt _dead._

Jon rather wished he _was_ dead, actually. Then, at least, he could have stopped thinking.

He wanted to curl into a ball to hide as much of himself as he could, but that would require moving.

 _Move,_ Jon ordered himself. It didn’t work. 

“Oh, God, Jon,” Tim was muttering, working his way around the stake they were tied to until he was nearly side-by-side with him. “Are you… oh, God. Okay. Fuck. Okay. What can I… Jon, can I touch you?”

Jon didn’t know how to answer that. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t have spoken if his life depended on it. He considered moving his eyes to look at Tim, but quickly gave up on the thought. He _could_ do it, _obviously_ he could do it, there wasn’t anything stopping him, but. He couldn’t. What was the point, anyway? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Jon didn’t matter.

Jon felt nothing.

Tim muttered another string of curses, then cleared his throat. “Okay. I’m just—gonna go with my gut, then. Okay. I’m gonna, I’m gonna pull your legs up closer, okay, Jon? I just—fuck. Fuck it, Jon, I’m giving you a hug. Let me know if I should stop.”

He paused, and when Jon didn’t respond, let out a quiet exhalation before slowly sliding his foot forward until he reached Jon’s knees. “Let me know if I should stop,” he repeated under his breath, then tucked his foot under both Jon’s legs and pulled them up in one gentle, fluid motion, so that Jon was turned on his side, halfway across Tim’s lap. “Okay.” Tim paused, looking down at him, and tugged a bit on the knots keeping his arms pulled back. “How am I gonna…” 

A frustrated expression crossed his face, dissolving almost as soon as it appeared to leave behind something tired and old. “I’m sorry, Jon,” he said, voice catching a bit. “I can’t hug you, and I don’t have anything to cover you. I just—God. Alright. Let me know,” he repeated again, “if I should stop.” Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward, until his chest was pressed against Jon’s bare shoulder, and Jon’s view of the room was blocked by the baggy fabric of his Hawaiian shirt. 

For a moment, Jon stayed frozen. Then, like he was a child who’d skinned his knee, his body heaved itself into a sob. 

Jon hated it. He wasn’t upset. Not enough to cry like this. He bit his lip to keep the sound from escaping, and held his breath, afraid the next one would come out the same way. He could do nothing to stop the tears that spilled out, though, coalescing on the floor by his cheek like so many beads of glass. When he was finally forced to take another breath, it shuddered, pulling a sound out of him that was so much worse than sobbing.

Tim made a noise Jon couldn’t interpret, and his shoulders hunched a bit farther forward, shielding Jon under them that much more.

“It’s okay, it’s—it’s okay,” Tim mumbled. “I—it’s—God, not this. Not this. I never—I would’ve—fuck. _Fuck.”_ He broke off, and Jon focused on taking a breath that wouldn’t shatter into something awful. “Okay,” Tim went on, voice steadying a bit. “Shh, Jon. Shh, it’s… I’ve got you. They’re gone, I’ve got you, you can cry now, it’s okay, it’s—I’ve got you.” He went on like that, a bewildering series of kindnesses Jon was too wrecked to question. 

Eventually, Jon gave up trying to hold his breath, and just focused on stifling the sounds his body wanted to make as much as he could. Tim stayed over him, murmuring reassurances until his voice went hoarse, and then humming tunelessly until Jon had finally wrung himself out. 

“Go ahead and sleep, Jon,” Tim had whispered at one point. Eventually, once he’d shaken himself to pieces and lost track of which parts of him felt anything at all, Jon obeyed.

Tim finally heard Jon’s breathing grow even, the last of his tears blurring into the edge of sleep until he was out. 

Tim didn’t sit up. At this rate he was going to do permanent damage to his back, or something, hunching over like he was. He didn’t care. 

He hadn’t thought it was possible for him to hate the Circus more.

(He hadn’t thought Jon was capable of making those kinds of sounds. He hadn’t thought _anyone_ could make those kinds of sounds. If he never heard them again, it would be too soon.)

And they were going to come back _tomorrow_ and do it all over again.

They had to get out of here. They had to get out of here _now._

Tim wracked his brain long into what he eventually knew was the night, and came up with nothing. His last thought before sleep claimed him was that he was the one who’d insisted they leave the Archives. 

He’d done something worse to Jon than anything Jon ever did to him. 

If they somehow managed to survive this, Tim was never going to forgive himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: non-consensual nudity & touching (which, while entirely nonsexual, is still worth an M rating in my book); physical restraint (as well as canon-typical Stranger nonsense); one character briefly thinks they might drown; some highkey dissociation
> 
> *
> 
> lotion-related trauma: It Begins
> 
> i… am sorry. i would like to say things get better from here but. look, they _do_ get better. it'll all be okay, it just… takes a hot minute. in the meantime, i mean. they'll be Fine. 
> 
> …canon!elias certainly thought so, anyway. and he knows everything so i'm sure his judgment can be trusted 100%, right?


	3. Cataclysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim had no idea how long they’d been there when the door appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for chapter warnings

At some point while he was asleep, Tim had changed positions so that he and Jon were lying back to back. He felt reluctantly grateful for that when he woke to see Nikola bent over them, chattering about how much better Jon’s skin looked already. It made it easier to aim a kick at the mannequin’s face. 

Not _useful,_ maybe, but _easier._

She grabbed his foot in one hand without even looking at him, continuing to unpick the knots around Jon’s wrists as she talked. Jon himself was wild-eyed, gaze darting desperately around the room as he watched Nikola’s wind-up toys haul in the same things they had yesterday. He pressed his lips together, shaking his head frantically. 

“Now, Archivist, you were so good for me yesterday,” Nikola chided. “I hope you aren’t going to disappoint me after doing such a lovely job earlier.”

“Get the fuck away from him, you rubberized freak,” Tim spat. She dropped his foot unceremoniously, ignoring him as she scooped Jon up in her arms. Jon gave an abbreviated yelp when she did, visibly strangling whatever words he’d wanted to protest with. Strangling them because of _Tim._

_“No!”_ Tim screamed, because apparently Jon wouldn’t. He couldn’t watch this again. He lunged, nearly dislocating his shoulders with the effort. “Put him down! You _fuckers,_ leave him alone!”

It was like he wasn’t even there. Nikola dropped Jon in the basin of water, and a host of monsters immediately swarmed him before he could come up to breathe. Just like yesterday, they poked and prodded Jon, pouring soap over every inch of skin, one of them getting it in his eyes while another scraped at the soles of his feet with a hard sponge. Just like yesterday, water splashed over the edges for the first few minutes as Jon struggled against them, before growing still and horribly, terrifyingly silent. The only way Tim knew he hadn’t drowned was by the sounds he made, every so often, sometimes almost too quiet to hear over Nikola’s endless monologue. 

There weren’t words for those sounds. 

Tim thought it went on like that for around ten minutes. Maybe a bit less. It felt like longer—felt like forever. He gave up on shouting, eventually. There wasn’t any point.

However long it took, they eventually hauled Jon back out of the tub, glassy-eyed and shaking. Tim lost sight of him for a moment as the throng descended to towel him off, and tried to push away the irrational panic that rose to consume him until he found Jon again. 

“There!” Nikola sighed happily. “All clean!”

The only difference between now and yesterday was how much less Jon struggled against the things that pinned him to the ground, holding his head still for Nikola to coat his face in cream and rub it in with her plastic fingers. She pressed down hard enough to make visible dents in his flesh, lingering over each section of skin for long enough that Tim knew it must have hurt. 

Jon stayed silent. 

Tim broke when Nikola moved from his ears and scalp down to his neck, pushing Jon’s head around like he was a ragdoll. 

“Get _off_ of him,” Tim snarled, throwing himself forward with a renewed effort. “You have _no right—_ ”

“You know, I’m beginning to wonder if keeping the assistant is more trouble than it’s worth,” Nikola said reflectively. “What do you think, Archivist?”

The animation returned to Jon’s eyes all at once, a fragile fervor painting over his awful stillness. “No,” he gasped. He swivelled his head to look at Tim, desperation raw in his face. “Tim, it’s—it’s—it’s fine, don’t, please, don’t—”

“Alright, Archivist, that’s enough out of you for now,” Nikola cut in, and Jon snapped his jaw shut mid-word. “If he can keep from being _too_ annoying, I’ll let him be. We have a deal, after all.” 

Jon maintained eye contact with Tim, pleading silently. 

It wasn’t like Tim had much of a choice. He clenched his jaw, and dipped a tiny nod. 

Jon sagged in relief, and Nikola chuckled. Then she traced another streak of moisturizer down the middle of his throat, and Jon tensed up all over again. 

Tim tensed, too. Fuck, Jon looked like he was fully aware now, and it was because of Tim. He bit his tongue to keep himself from lashing out again.

“Very good,” Nikola crooned, and squeezed the line of Jon’s trachea as she rubbed the cream into his skin.

Jon still didn’t look away from Tim, and Tim wasn’t about to break contact first. Jon’s eyes stayed clear and terrified as the mannequin worked her way down each of his arms, then his heaving chest, pressing so hard against each rib that Tim was half afraid they would crack. Silently, Tim ran through every curse he could think of. 

This was his fault.

Jon finally closed his eyes, making another one of those awful noises when Nikola reached the top of his pelvis. Tim gritted his teeth, praying to whatever might be listening that Jon would be able to lose himself again soon. 

He looked away. 

He didn’t look back when they turned him over, or when Nikola started talking about the best way to cut around the burn scar that covered Jon’s hand. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, same as Jon. It was the only way he could manage to keep from screaming.

Once in a while, Jon came back to himself enough to have a conversation. 

They’d worked out a routine fairly early on. Nikola would come in first thing in the morning; after she left, Tim would maneuver Jon into something resembling a comfortable position, and cover him up as much as he could manage; Jon would shake himself apart, and then either sit up and exist as a semi-functional human being, or pass out for the night. Rinse and repeat. Jon felt a bit hysterical at the pun. 

Rinse and repeat.

“So what d’you think listens to the tape recorders?” Tim asked. It was one of Jon’s better days, and he was currently sitting back-to-back with Tim the way they had on their very first night. Jon’s head lolled back a bit on Tim’s shoulder, but Tim didn’t seem to mind. 

“Hm?” Jon tried to focus on what Tim was saying.

“The tape recorders. What do you think listens to whatever they, you know, record?”

“Um. Nothing,” Jon said honestly. Tim snorted.

There was a pause. “What, really?” Tim sounded incredulous.

“I—yes? Why would there be anything listening to them?”

“Because,” Tim said slowly, “we work for a spooky evil eye-god that loves nothing more than eavesdropping on other people’s private business?”

“Well, yes,” Jon conceded, “but it’s not like it needs the tape recorders for that. It’s omniscient. What information is it going to get from the tapes that it couldn’t just watch in real time?”

“I…” Tim trailed off. “Huh. That’s a fair point, actually. I mean, I’m not saying you’re _right,_ because I’m morally opposed to agreeing with anything you ever say, but… huh.”

“Mm.” Jon let his eyes drift shut.

“So then why are you so obsessed with recording everything?” Tim asked. Jon sighed and opened his eyes again.

“What?”

“If you don’t think the tapes do anything for the Eye, what’s with you and tapes?”

“I don’t—”

“You better not be about to say you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Tim said severely. Despite himself, Jon chuckled a bit.

“Fine,” he admitted. “Fine. You’re right, I do record… more than I should have. I was trying to work on respecting people’s privacy more. That’s why I didn’t bring a tape recorder for dinner. I wanted to, but you said not to, so I decided I’d better leave it behind. Didn’t know it would follow me anyway. No, I just…” he trailed off, sleep tugging at his lids. 

Tim moved his shoulder gently, jostling Jon’s head. “Just what?”

“We only have a few sentences left of the real Sasha,” Jon murmured. “Just a few sentences, and they hardly mean anything. No way of knowing how much of her was real and how much was the NotThem. No way of knowing. Don’t want that to happen again. I won’t let it happen again,” he enunciated suddenly, before fading back into his previous exhaustion. “But then, I wouldn’t have let it happen to Sasha if I’d known. If I could just have stopped it. So—so if I can’t stop it again. If someone else gets lost like she did. At least they’ll be on the tapes. As much of them as I can keep. I don’t want to forget anyone else.”

Tim had gone very still under his head. Jon almost managed to drift off before he spoke again. “I didn’t know that,” he said, very quietly.

_Didn’t know what,_ Jon wanted to ask, but he was too tired. Besides, he had a feeling Tim didn’t quite know the answer, either.

Jon slept.

Tim had no idea how long they’d been there when the door appeared. He knew he should have been able to keep track, given the extremely regular _daily routine_ Nikola kept them to, but he was too preoccupied trying to survive and keep Jon from breaking completely to bother keeping count past the first five or so. 

He knew they’d been there long enough that they should have died of thirst, or maybe starvation. They had yet to be given anything to eat or drink. Tim hadn’t really felt hungry since they’d first gotten there, though, and he hadn’t needed to use the toilet, either, which was lucky. He really hadn’t enjoyed thinking about that before he’d figured out the whole “exempt from daily needs” thing. Somehow he didn’t think a bunch of Strangers would have the best facilities.

He knew they’d been there for… a while. Too long, but then, that bit was always going to be true. 

The first sign he got that something was changing was when the tape recorder flipped itself on.

The second sign came almost immediately afterwards, when a door creaked open that definitely hadn’t been there a minute ago. 

Tim had scrambled around almost before he registered Michael’s presence, hunching over Jon as much as he could. Nikola had left maybe an hour ago, and Jon was still only half-aware of anything. 

“Oh, oh,” Michael giggled, and Tim bared his teeth. “Oh, Archivist, look at you. You know, it’s almost sad to see you like this.”

Jon turned his head slowly, blinking at the monster in the doorway. 

“Almost,” Michael added, laughing again.

“What do you want,” Tim hissed, trying to nudge his way between Michael and Jon. Nobody else should be seeing him _like this._ He did his best to block Michael’s view. 

“Aren’t you _loyal,_ little Assistant,” Michael grinned, tilting his head like an owl. “You know, I could tell you a story about that.”

“Pass,” Tim bit out.

Michael sighed. “Pity. As for what I want… well, I’ve come to a decision. Archivist, I am going to kill you.”

Jon didn’t respond, which was worrying, but not really much of a surprise. Tim glared for both of them. “What is it with evil monsters and wanting you dead, Jon,” he muttered. “It’s like you’re a celebrity. Congratulations, I guess.” He cleared his throat, and addressed Michael. “Yeah, we’re gonna pass on that, too.”

“You don’t have much of a say in the matter, Assistant,” Michael intoned.

Tim was getting very sick of hearing that. “Fuck off,” he said tiredly.

“No,” Michael returned. He sounded far too gleeful. 

“Jon, why don’t you ask our pal Mikey some questions,” Tim suggested. Jon stared up at him for a few seconds before he visibly processed what Tim had said, and then he nodded.

“How did you find us?” Jon asked, turning his eyes on Michael.

Not the question Tim would have gone with, but sure. Hopefully he’d scare off hand-hook-car-door man with his spooky eye nonsense, and not goad him into murdering them both, but honestly, at this point Tim would take either. 

Michael hummed. “The Eye watches, and the Stranger conceals, but me… I lie, Archivist. I am the throat of delusion incarnate. They can’t hide you from me.”

“I’m feeling distinctly undervalued,” Tim announced. He regretted it immediately when Michael turned his attention on him.

“Yes,” Michael said, something poisonous in its tone. “I’m sure you are.”

Tim tensed, but Michael just turned back to Jon. “Do you know who I am, Archivist?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. Slowly, after a long beat, he answered, “I think… you were—I heard your voice, on that tape. You were Michael Shelley. Gertrude’s assistant.”

Michael laughed, the worst one Tim had heard so far. Static sparks jumped across his vision for a minute, until Michael quieted. “Yes,” he agreed. “And no.” 

“What does that _mean?”_ Jon asked plaintively.

“Hmm,” Michael looked at him with eyes that suddenly seemed more like the false spots on a moth’s wing than anything that could _see._ Tim felt irrationally convinced that Michael’s face wasn’t anything like a real face at all. The moment passed. “Try that again, Archivist. Goodness, you _are_ bad at this, aren’t you?”

Jon scowled. When he spoke again, Tim felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. _“Who are you?”_

Michael grinned. “Close enough, I suppose.” He looked back at Tim with his owlish eyes, his moth-spot vision. “Listen carefully, loyal one.”

Tim didn’t think there was anything that could make him feel sorry for the monster that had trapped him and Martin in those hallways, but the story that followed came pretty damn close.

When he was done, there was silence. Michael seemed content to stand in front of his door, grinning madly, and Jon looked… _weird._ Tim wasn’t sure how to describe what was going on in Jon’s face, but it didn’t seem good. 

“Why now?” Jon asked finally.

“Do you mean, why have I decided to kill you?” Jon nodded, and Michael smirked wider. “Oh, I was always going to. You were a far better Archivist than Gertrude, and I do not want the Archives to win. Still, I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first; but instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. Better your death happens now,” he finished. 

Jon took in a breath. _“Is there anything either of us can do to stop you killing us?”_

_Finally._ Tim stared at Michael, waiting for his answer.

“If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice,” Michael answered. Then he laughed. “I would not advise that, though. I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them.”

“You said you were the voice of delusion, or whatever,” Tim pointed out. “Why should we believe anything you say?”

Michael looked delighted. “You shouldn’t!” 

“Great,” Tim growled.

“Tim…” Jon rasped. Tim shook his head.

“No. I’ve been in those hallways, Jon. Trust me, we don’t want to go in there.” Tim stared at the door behind Michael, remembering.

“Worse than this?” Jon asked in a tiny, broken sort of voice.

“I—” Tim looked at the door for a long moment more, then back down at Jon. Jon, who went through the worst hell Tim could think of every morning. Jon, who hadn’t had a scrap of clothing to wear since they’d got here.

“No,” Tim admitted. “No, it’s not.” He looked at Michael, feeling something already-fractured inside him break a little more. “Fine. You win.”

“Good.” Michael looked horribly pleased with itself. He reached out and, with a single awful finger, shredded the ties around both of their wrists. Jon shuddered at the feeling, and Tim barely stifled a scream as he brought his arms forward. They’d been pulled behind him for so long it felt like they weren’t meant to move this way anymore. He clenched his teeth, slowly stretching them out until the pain started to subside. 

“Right this way, please,” Michael requested, gesturing towards its door with the same long hand. 

“Just a sec,” Tim said. Jon looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but he shrugged. Michael was going to kill them anyway. As quickly as he could, which was still slower than most arthritics, he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Jon. 

“I—” Jon stood frozen for a moment. 

“Come on, put it on,” Tim said. “We’ve got an appointment to catch with Death, right?”

Jon jerked into motion, reaching out and hesitating for the barest fraction of a second before snatching the shirt from Tim’s hands. He slipped it on, and Tim felt a tiny bit less awful about everything when he saw that it was big enough on Jon to hang down past his mid-thighs. 

It was hard to believe he’d ever been able to forget just how _tiny_ Jon was. It didn’t used to matter.

“Alright,” Jon said, folding the shirt across his chest like a robe and clutching the fabric in his fists. “Alright.” He turned back to Michael and the door, and squared his shoulders. 

“Open it,” Michael commanded. “Open it, and all of this will be over.”

Tim wasn’t looking forward to seeing those hallways again, but Jon was right. 

At least it would be over soon.

Jon put his hand on the doorknob, took one last, long breath, and twisted.

The door didn’t open.

Tim watched the realization cross Michael’s face as he knocked Jon aside, rattling the doorknob himself, but he didn’t understand it. Not even when the monster started to scream. _So much for not alerting the Circus,_ Tim thought, and then Michael flickered like a glitch in a screen and stopped being there. 

“What,” Tim asked flatly. Jon shrugged, looking helpless.

The door creaked open.

“Do you want to come in?” asked the thing inside, which was not Michael, but also definitely was. 

“Helen?” Jon asked.

“Um,” Tim cut in before whoever-they-were could answer. “I’d love to exchange names, pronouns, phone numbers, business cards, whatever, but I think if we, y’know, don’t want to stay with the Circus, we should get out of here _now.”_

“Right,” Jon breathed. He clutched Tim’s shirt more tightly around him, knuckles growing pale against his dark skin. “Yes.”

“Right this way,” maybe-Helen said, stepping aside.

They went through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: lotion trauma continues (but you can skip to the first break if you want to avoid the Big Trauma, and just start reading from the paragraph beginning with "once in a while"); mild discussion of death and insanity, either of which is judged to be less undesirable than current circumstances. I don't believe the latter reflects suicidal ideation - more "which of these murderers would be less awful," so i guess canon-typical rock-and-a-hard-place stuff - but still, please read safely! 
> 
> *
> 
> FINALLY we are moving past the Bonus Trauma and on to the comfort chapter 
> 
> well. it's probably gonna be comfort chapterS, because martin insists upon it, but i only have chapter 5 half-written as of this posting so i'm not updating the official count just yet (i am, however, too fond of what i've already written for ch5 to leave it incomplete, so. please anticipate at least one more installment after the official 4th and final). 
> 
> As always, i will not post anything that doesn't have a prewritten emotional resolution, so don't worry about a surprise perpetual cliffhanger, that isn't in the works. what May be in the works (definitely. definitely is. i'm so sorry galatea fic i'm coming for you baby just,, give me a minute) is a truly gratuitous amount of tea and blankets, and possibly even (dare i say it) Discussions About Feelings and Healthy Emotional Growth
> 
> i can't just write angst-with-a-happy-ending OKAY it needs to have HUGS. ENOUGH HUGS. ((and the secret is that there are never enough hugs. there will always be more hugs to write. send help))


	4. Convalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tim?” Martin yelped. Tim winced, raising a few fingers in a feeble wave. “Where have you _been?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count has officially gone up! Ch. 5 is fully written, and I'm expecting to get ch. 6 written today unless I experience a surge of responsible impulses and spend the necessary amount of time on homework before going to sleep at a reasonable time. So. chapter six will get written today. 
> 
> I'm also planning an epilogue, but I can't guarantee its existence until I know where ch. 6 ends up (there are a few ways it could go, depending on how everyone reacts to various things), so stay tuned to see the chapter count continue to fluctuate! We shouldn't go beyond 7 chapters max, though. 
> 
> anyway from here on out everyone is going to be COMFORTED and DRINK TEA. that's all (well. mostly. Don't Worry About It)
> 
> see endnotes for chapter warnings

Tim had been fully expecting to find himself back in the hallways he and Martin had gotten lost in, still with Jon if he was lucky. Instead, they stumbled right through the doorframe into what looked an awful lot like the tunnels under the Institute. 

After a moment, Tim recognized where in the tunnels they were. The trapdoor into the Archives was just a few turns away. 

“Wh…” He turned to look back at the thing that had replaced Michael, who was still standing in the doorway behind them. He couldn’t read the expression on their face as the door began to swing shut.

“Wait!” Jon blurted. The thing poked their head back out inquiringly. “Are… you’re not—Helen Richardson? Where—Michael, is he—”

“Gone,” the creature confirmed. “He got… distracted. Lost my way.”

“A-and now?” Jon looked more distressed than Tim would have expected. It wasn’t like Michael was any friend of theirs. “Are… are you Helen?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I never know, not really. Do I need a name?”

“I suppose not,” Jon said. 

“So you’re not going to kill us?” Tim interjected. He wasn’t a huge fan of tempting fate, but he’d rather know than not. 

“No,” the thing said, though there was an uncertain note in it that sent a shiver up Tim’s spine. “That was Michael’s desire, not mine. You can go now.”

“I…” Jon glanced around. “Where—?”

“I know how to get into the Archives from here,” Tim assured him quietly. 

“Oh. Okay.” Jon looked like he might fall over for a moment. Tim started to reach for him, but he straightened on his own, turning back to… Helen? Helen-with-a-question-mark? “Thank you,” he stammered, and for all his mistrust Tim couldn’t help but echo the sentiment. 

Helen just gave them an odd sort of smile, and pulled her door closed. A moment later, it had never been there. 

“This way,” Tim pointed, taking a tentative hold of Jon’s elbow. Thankfully, Jon didn’t flinch away. In fact, he leaned into the touch, and by the first left turn, Tim had his whole arm wrapped around Jon’s shoulders. By the time they actually reached the trapdoor, he was leaning on Jon for support almost as much as Jon was leaning on him. Normal physical needs or not, after being stuck on the ground for however long they’d been there, Tim was feeling pretty shaky on his feet.

“Ready?” he checked. When Jon nodded, Tim steeled himself and shoved the door open, poking his head up into the Archives. The lights were on, which probably meant the others were here somewhere, but Tim couldn’t see anyone around. Small blessings. 

He hoisted himself up, reaching down to help Jon do the same. Jon hesitated, not taking his hand.

“Your arms,” he protested. Once he mentioned it, Tim realized just how tender and swollen his shoulder joints felt. 

“Fair point,” he conceded reluctantly. “Are you okay to—”

Jon had scrambled up beside him before he finished talking, and Tim broke off. 

“It would appear so,” Jon said primly. 

Tim shook his head, wrapping an arm back around his shoulders. “Come on, know-it-all,” he grumbled. “Let’s get a move on, huh?”

Jon fell into step beside him. He didn’t ask where they were going, which either meant he knew where Tim was steering them, or he was still too out of it to care. 

Either way, Tim didn’t push. 

It was easy enough to get from the tunnels to the back room without cutting through the main section of the Archives, and he was pretty sure at least one of them had a change of clothes stashed in there for emergencies. They could face the others once Jon was dressed in more than Tim’s filthy button-down. 

Tim pushed open the door and froze.

“…Macchiato, what was I thinking, Jon would—” Martin was pacing, his back to the door. Tim stepped in front of Jon swiftly. A heartbeat later, Martin turned around and broke off midsentence, eyes widening. 

“Tim?” he yelped. Tim winced, raising a few fingers in a feeble wave. “Where have you _been?”_

Jon grabbed a handful of fabric from the back of Tim’s undershirt, slumping against him. Tim doubted he’d stay upright for much longer. 

“Around!” Tim said brightly. “Tell you about it in a bit. Can I have the room?”

“Wh—why?” 

“Want to freshen up,” he said desperately. It wasn’t technically a lie.

“But the bathroom’s down the hall,” Martin pointed out, brow furrowing deeper. Tim inched forward, trying not to make it too obvious that there was an entire person standing behind him. 

“More comfortable in here,” he tried.

Martin wasn’t having it. “Who’s that behind your back?” 

Tim didn’t have the energy for this. “Would you believe me if I said no one?” 

“No,” Martin said flatly. He craned his neck, trying to see around Tim, but Tim was way too practiced by now at hiding Jon’s body behind his own. “What’s going on?”

Internally, Tim threw his hands in the air. Fine. Whatever. “It’s Jon,” he told Martin sharply. “Leave us alone for five minutes and I’ll explain, okay? Just—please. Martin, _please.”_

“I…” Martin hesitated. “Jon? Is that… what you want?”

Tim tried not to let that sting. It was a fair question, given how things had been between them when they left. 

He waited, but Jon didn’t respond—not so much as a nod or shake of his head against Tim’s back. Tim cursed again quietly.

“Don’t think he’s up to talking right now,” he told Martin, even though he knew that wouldn’t cut it.

“Then I’m not leaving,” Martin said, folding his arms.

Tim tried to get a look at Jon’s face to gauge his reaction, but he couldn’t see it from this angle. Probably didn’t matter. Tim doubted Jon was showing much on his face at this point, anyway. 

_“Fine,”_ he gritted. “Then just close the door and—and do whatever. I don’t care.”

Martin nodded, thin-lipped, and reached over to push the door shut. As soon as the latch clicked, Tim turned, gently tugging his undershirt out of Jon’s grip with the movement. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly. Jon just looked at him, eyes focusing slightly to the left of Tim’s forehead. He was still on his feet, but obviously fading fast. “Alright. Don’t worry about it, I’m just gonna scrounge up some stuff for you to wear, okay?”

To his surprise, Jon nodded, a listless dip of his head but still better than anything Tim had been expecting. He mustered a smile for that. “Great. One sec.”

The moment he stepped away to rummage through the cupboard for some spare trousers, Martin gasped. Tim turned on his heel to see the man stepping towards Jon, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He felt a flash of panic. 

“Hey!” he snapped furiously, and Martin drew back like he’d been burned. Jon made a noise, and Tim pulled up short. 

He looked at Jon, shaking where he stood propped against the wall and leaning towards Martin, who was white as a sheet under his freckles. 

Tim stepped closer to Jon again. “Is Martin okay?” he asked him quietly. 

Jon looked at him. Tears were starting to swim in his eyes, but by now Tim knew to count that as a good sign. He nodded again, a tiny, furtive movement. Tim exhaled.

“Good. Look, I’ll just be a second. Make sure he doesn’t fall over,” he directed the last at Martin, sending him a look he hoped conveyed just how dire the consequences would be if he made Jon worse. Martin nodded, eyes enormous. 

Tim took another breath before turning around to scour the cupboard for anything that looked like it might fit Jon. He paid no mind to the mess he was making in the process. Eventually, he managed to turn up a pair of slacks that looked like they might have belonged to either Jon or Melanie, plus a hoodie with a ghost logo on the front. Good enough. 

“Here,” he said, striding back to where Jon was now buried in Martin’s arms. “Come on, boss, let go of Martin for a second and then you can fall asleep on him if you want.”

It took a moment, but Jon pulled away, face going blank when he saw the clothes Tim was holding out. 

“Come on,” Tim said again, hoping he hadn’t picked out something upsetting somehow. “I’m just saying, that shirt must really stink by now, right?”

Jon’s expression twisted into something that was almost a smile. After another moment, he reached shakily forward, and Tim deposited the outfit in his arms. 

“Alright,” Tim said softly. “Martin and I will just be over here while you change, okay?”

Jon nodded, another odd look crossing his face. Tim nodded back at him before grabbing Martin’s arm much more tightly than he’d been holding Jon’s, pulling him to stand in the corner nearest the door. 

“What…” Martin began, but Tim shook his head. 

“I can’t,” he blurted, keeping his voice low as he brought his hands up to run them through his hair. He winced before he made it through the air in front of his face, hastily letting his arms fall back to his sides. Reaching upwards was not fun. “I just… not right now. Please, Martin.”

Martin looked paler than ever, but he nodded. “Sure. Of course.”

“How long were we gone?” he asked after a minute.

“I—I’m not…” Martin stammered, and Tim’s heart sank. 

“Did anyone even notice?” he amended, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Martin looked away.

“Jesus,” Tim breathed. 

Intellectually, he got it. That was the worst part. He _got_ why no one had gone looking. Jon hadn’t exactly been a regular face at the office lately, and Tim—well, he hadn’t exactly been a friendly one. Once their absences had even registered, it would’ve been fair to think they’d both probably left of their own accord. 

Tim shut his eyes, then immediately reopened them, needing to see the off-white wall in front of him. Needing to know he wasn’t still back there.

“Martin, how long?”

“I think… maybe a month?” Martin said quietly. “Today’s the tenth, so…”

“Tenth of June?” Martin nodded, and Tim rubbed his face, ignoring the ache in his shoulders this time as he did so. “They took us on May fifth.”

Martin swore. 

“Yeah.” Tim thought that about summed it up.

Behind them, Jon coughed, and Tim turned around. 

“Looking dapper as ever, boss,” he quipped, forcing a grin. Jon was practically swimming in the hoodie, and he gave Tim a glare. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“You both look exhausted,” Martin commented softly. Tim looked at him, and from the corner of his eye he saw Jon do the same. Martin flushed. “Look, I just—you’ve obviously been—been through something awful, so why don’t you just. Rest, for a little bit. Okay?”

Tim huffed, but he had to admit he had a point. Tim was desperate for a shower and a hot meal in an abstract sort of way, but Jon was swaying on his feet, and Tim didn’t really feel like he could take too much more excitement himself. 

It was probably multiple kinds of messed up that a shower sounded more daunting than being tortured by clowns, but that was his life right now.

“Yeah,” Tim conceded. “Fair enough.”

Martin made a faint noise of surprise when Tim crawled into the cot after coaxing Jon to lie down, but Tim was too spent to wonder what he was thinking about. He pulled up the musty sheets and wrapped his aching arms around Jon’s trembling shoulders. 

Finally, for the first time in more than a month, Tim let himself rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: dissociation/trauma responses (chiefly described from the POV of a character witnessing said trauma responses, although the POV character is. Also Traumatized); some or all of the characters in this chapter _definitely_ have PTSD
> 
> *
> 
> Martin: gosh I totally screwed up that interview I can't believe I gave a statement-giver pocket change. the world is literally ending i can feel it. this is the worst thing that will happen to me today i think
> 
> Tim: *busts through the door looking haggard and filthy in his undershirt like an action figure from Die Hard* *reluctantly steps aside to reveal Jon standing behind him in his missing shirt* what'd we miss
> 
> Martin: 
> 
> Martin: i see now that i was tempting fate but nevertheless i must ask. What The Fuck


	5. Cicatrix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s scowl deepened, so Tim offered his most infuriating grin. “Boss, if looks could kill, I think I’d be dead from that one three times over already.”
> 
> “We should all be so lucky,” Jon grouched.
> 
> “Aw, you love me,” Tim teased. Jon rolled his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those interested: chapter six proved more dastardly to write than expected (by which i mean it went long, not Worse. it's all good don't worry) so: while i do Not want it to happen, there is now a Very Slight possibility. that we will go beyond seven chapters. Very slight. Almost nonexistent. But we _may_ , possibly, end up extending it to eight.
> 
> We'll see.
> 
> See endnotes for chapter warnings

Martin stepped out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Then he leaned against the opposite wall, sliding down until he was seated across from the room that held two of his closest friends. 

Nobody had seen Tim in weeks, but they’d all just thought he was spending more time than usual in the tunnels. When Martin had asked about Jon, Elias had told him he was conducting “external research” for the Unknowing. 

Jon hadn’t had any _clothes._

Martin buried his face in his hands, trying not to think about what had happened. A month. Tim and Jon had been kidnapped more than a month ago. 

He hadn’t even known.

Martin let himself cry for a minute, taking care to keep quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was wake either of them up. 

The look in Tim’s eyes when he saw Martin reaching out to touch Jon… he shook his head. He wasn’t—he wasn’t going to think about that. He couldn’t handle thinking about that, right now. He fixed his mind instead on how much Tim had seemed to genuinely care about Jon. He’d climbed right into the cot beside him without thinking twice. 

It was incredibly different from the last time he’d seen either of them. He’d had to cajole Tim into attempting a civil conversation with Jon, and even then, Tim had treated it more like a war meeting than a friendly talk. Martin shook his head with a melancholy sort of fondness, remembering how he’d gone on about needing to find “neutral territory” to “make sure it’s not just another weird monster trick.” Martin had at least managed to direct him to a restaurant with a menu he knew Jon wouldn’t mind. 

His stomach dropped when he realized he didn’t know how that dinner had gone. He hadn’t seen Tim or Jon since…

_Oh, God._

“Martin?”

He bolted to his feet, frantically raising a finger to his lips at Melanie’s call. “Are you done with—what?” She blinked at him, then lowered her voice. “What’s up?”

Martin opened his mouth, and closed it again. What did he even say about this?

“Come on,” he whispered. “I—Basira should hear this, too. I mean, I guess. If she doesn’t—I’m sure she doesn’t already know. She wouldn’t. Right? You didn’t know, either, right?”

“Didn’t know what?” Melanie’s voice was creeping back up to a more normal volume, so Martin hurried her back to the main space of the Archives. “Martin? Why were we whispering?”

“Because that’s what you do when people are sleeping,” Martin snapped before he could catch himself. “I—sorry. Sorry, I’m just a bit out of sorts. Where’s Basira?”

“Um, I think she was reading in the stacks,” Melanie said slowly. “Should I go grab her?”

Martin nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be good.”

“Right.” Melanie was still looking at him, something calculating in her gaze. “I’ll be right back. Don’t… go anywhere, alright?”

Martin snorted a bit. “Yeah,” he muttered. “We wouldn’t want that.”

Melanie gave him one last measured look before disappearing into the maze of shelves that held most of the unfiled statements. Martin slumped into a chair, scrubbing his sleeves over his face after a moment once he remembered that he didn’t exactly look presentable. 

They hadn’t known, either. 

They couldn’t have. 

Melanie reappeared, trailed by a disgruntled Basira who still had a statement folder in her hand. She kept sneaking glances at it. Well, tough. She could read about people dying horribly later.

“Has Daisy said anything about what she’s been doing?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to start with, but too late to take it back now. 

Basira blinked. “Er, yeah? Mostly she’s been hunting down leads on the Stranger. Activity’s gotten pretty scarce lately, though. Why?”

Martin shook his head, like that would help him get his thoughts in order. “Nothing, just—I just—did either of you—did you know they were missing?”

Melanie’s stance grew a little tenser, and Basira’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Tim,” Martin said. “Jon. Did you know?”

Melanie shook her head minutely. Her fingers were twitching towards her phone where it sat on the desk. Basira didn’t look away from Martin.

“No,” she said evenly. “I had my suspicions that something had happened to Tim, but nothing concrete. Are you saying he was with Jon?”

“And where exactly did you think Jon was?” Martin snapped.

Basira blinked. “On a mission for Elias. Like Daisy. Looking into the Unknowing.”

Martin laughed, hating the sound of it. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what he told me, too. Elias said he was doing _research.”_ He spat out the word like venom. 

“I’m guessing that’s not the case,” Melanie said, raising an eyebrow.

“Great work, Melanie,” Martin bit back. “Got it in one.”

“Martin,” Basira rebuked, “there’s no call for—”

“You didn’t see them,” he cut her off. “You didn’t see…” Martin pressed his fingers against his eyelids, trying to collect himself. “No,” he muttered. “No, you’re right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Melanie tried. For once, she sounded uncertain.

“They’ve been—they were kidnapped,” Martin managed, trying to keep it short. Trying not to think about the look on Jon’s face when Martin made eye contact. “Over a month ago. I don’t know who had them, Tim didn’t want to talk about it. They’re sleeping in the back room right now. _Don’t_ wake them up.” He fixed both of them with a look that Melanie, at least, seemed to take seriously. 

“Why did you think we would’ve known?” Basira asked, arms folded with the statement clutched to her chest. She looked more pensive than anything.

“I don’t—because no one tells me anything!” Martin burst out. “You’re all—I’m the only one doing any actual research, and that’s _fine,_ you’re doing more important things, I _get_ that, but you could at least tell me what’s going on once in a while! I have no idea how much everyone just _isn’t saying,_ or, or how much you aren’t bothering to tell _me_ specifically, because I’m too much of a—a boring, wet blanket for you to bother talking to! And, like, that’s fine, most of the time, I can deal with that, but not when—not when we’re talking about the end of the world! Not when it’s Jon, and Tim, and Sasha, and I don’t even know anything’s wrong until it’s too late _every single time_ because it’s just—just _me,_ like it—like it doesn’t even matter.” He broke off, breathing hard.

“Oh,” Melanie said, very quietly. Just like that, Martin’s face was burning.

“Oh, God, I can’t believe I just said that,” he mumbled. “Just—never mind. Never mind, you didn’t know, the important thing is that they’re back now, anyway.”

“I… er, right,” Melanie muttered, shifting awkwardly. “I, uh—are they okay?”

Jon, shuddering against the wall, holding Tim’s shirt closed in the front as he met Martin’s eyes. Tim gritting his teeth when he tried to move his arms, asking if anyone had even noticed they were gone.

“No,” Martin said.

Melanie just nodded, but Basira tilted her head. “How ‘not okay’ are we talking?”

Martin exhaled, sinking further down in his chair as he fought to think his answer through. “I think Tim might be injured, he was moving his arms a bit weirdly. Jon…” He closed his eyes. “Yeah. Jon wasn’t okay. I don’t—I don’t know what happened, exactly, but. Yeah.”

“Any physical injuries? Bleeding, broken bones, possible concussions, that sort of thing?”

Martin shook his head. “Nothing I could see. They were just… tired. They looked really, really tired.”

“Hence the sleeping,” Basira concluded.

“Sure,” Martin sighed. “Hence, that.”

“So…” Melanie hesitated. “What do we do?”

“Let them sleep,” Martin said shortly. He glared at Basira until she nodded. “Wait until they’re up to talking about it.”

“Okay, and in the meantime?”

Martin shrugged, standing up from his chair even if it felt like he was lifting the world on his back. “You can do what you want,” he told her. “I’m going to make some tea.”

He walked away.

Tim woke up slowly.

The first thing he noticed was that he was warm. He’d practically forgotten what it felt like to wake up feeling warm. He’d only been wearing a shirt, trainers and a pair of jeans when they’d been snatched, and like, that was still way better than Jon had it—Tim figured the only reason the man hadn’t caught his death of cold within a week was whatever spookiness also kept them from dying of hunger or thirst—but being stuck on a concrete floor with no heat or way of moving around was more than a little chilly, clothes or not. 

He snuggled a little deeper into the nest of blankets. Even his _toes_ felt comfortable.

It was nice.

He almost dozed back off, but he came fully awake with a shock when he heard Jon make a noise in the back of his throat. It wasn’t the same, it was almost nothing like the sounds he would make when—but Tim wasn’t falling back asleep now, either way.

It was a nightmare, Tim reminded himself as he nudged Jon’s shoulder gently with his. This was what you did when people had nightmares. It wasn’t selfish to wake him up from a dream that was clearly upsetting him.

Jon’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped. Tim gave him a second to take in the ceiling and remember where they were.

“Bad dreams?” he asked softly.

Jon snorted, and took a moment to level out his shaky breathing. “Would you believe I thought they’d gone away?”

“D’you want to talk about them?”

Jon sighed. “Not really, no.”

They were both silent for a moment. 

“Tim,” Jon said, very quietly. “I think I’m turning into a monster.”

“Right,” Tim said. _Wait._ “Is this… news?”

Jon turned his head to look at him, exasperation all over his face. Tim tried not to let on how glad he was to see it. “I mean—no, I—I guess not,” Jon grumbled. “I just… I _hate_ it,” he hissed suddenly. “I hate the looks on all of their faces when they saw me again. I hate—” he cut himself off.

“Who’s ‘they’?”

Jon looked away. He wormed a hand out from under the covers, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie rather than meeting Tim’s eyes. “I… when I dream,” he started haltingly. “It’s always the same. Statement givers. The ones who came in person, I, I dream their statements, far more vividly than I normally used to dream, but I thought. I thought it was just me. I _wanted_ it to just be me. It didn’t seem fair… but that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s not fair.” He let out a bitter laugh. “None of this is _fair._ That’s not how it works.”

He looked back at Tim. “When I dream, so do they. The statement givers. Naomi Herne, Lionel Elliott, Tessa Winters, Karolina Górka, Jordan Kennedy, and, and Daisy. Even Georgie. They relive it. Only, only now I’m there. Watching. I can’t move, I can’t even look away. No matter how hard I try, there’s nothing I can do except _watch._ ”

Tim sucked in a slow breath, processing that. “Does that happen every time you sleep?”

Jon shook his head, and Tim felt the weight of relief press heavy on him. Jon didn’t deserve to spend every night forced to watch other people suffer. “Usually just once or twice a week. Not—when—” he opened and closed his mouth a few times, growing tenser before he gave up and skipped over the words. “I haven’t dreamed. Lately. I thought maybe they were… I don’t know what I thought. It was stupid, in retrospect, to think they’d just,” he waved his hand, ensconced to the fingertips in the black fabric of his hoodie, and Tim felt a wave of fondness for no reason at all, “go away.”

“Nah,” Tim said, tilting his head. Jon blinked at him, and he smothered another grin. “I mean, maybe a little. I don’t blame you for not looking a gift horse in the mouth, though. We kind of,” mentally, Tim kicked himself, but it was too late to stop the rest of the sentence from spilling out, “had bigger things on our mind.” He swallowed, feeling a sudden chill. He was abruptly convinced that if he turned his head, he’d see Nikola standing over them, about to clap her hands and start another morning. Tim shook himself. “Anyway. If you had the dream now, that means you’re probably clear for the rest of the week, right?”

Jon eyed him doubtfully. “I don’t know if that’s how it works, Tim.”

Tim shrugged as best he could, and promptly made a mental note not to do that again anytime soon. _Ouch._ “Where’s the harm in hoping, though?”

If anything, that made Jon visibly more skeptical, and this time Tim didn’t bother resisting the urge to chuckle. Jon’s scowl deepened, so Tim offered his most infuriating grin. “Boss, if looks could kill, I think I’d be dead from that one three times over already.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Jon grouched.

“Aw, you love me,” Tim teased, rolling to sit up. God, he hurt all over. He stretched, which didn’t help his arms much, but his back seemed to appreciate it. 

He rolled his neck and froze when he caught sight of Jon’s face. His expression was a cross between scandalized and downright concerned. “What?” Tim asked, glancing down at himself. He didn’t seem to be leaking blood from anywhere.

“I had no idea,” Jon began, “that human vertebrae could make that much _noise.”_

Tim threw his head back in a full-bodied laugh. God, it felt good. “Wait until you hear me crack my knuckles,” he threatened when he was done.

“Knuckles are normal! Everyone knows knuckles make sounds!” Jon followed his lead in crawling out from under the covers, pulling his hood up as he did so. “Not backs! Backs do not make that many sounds!”

“Mine does,” Tim pointed out.

“Well, it shouldn’t,” Jon pronounced. 

“If you say so, boss.” 

Tim slipped his shoes on and stood up. After a moment’s hesitation, Jon followed suit, bare feet hardly making a sound against the cheap linoleum. “What do you think?” Tim asked, glancing at him. “Ready to face the masses?”

Jon made a wry noise. “Hardly. Shall we?”

Tim bowed gallantly and offered his arm for Jon to take. “My good sir, I thought you’d never ask.”

Jon rolled his eyes, and threaded his arm through Tim’s.

They wandered down the hall until they came out into the desk area, currently empty of inhabitants. Tim glanced at the clock on the wall. _09.17._ They’d slept all the way through the night. 

Martin bustled out of the kitchenette that was nestled in an alcove across from Jon’s office. “You’re awake!” he said cheerfully. He looked a bit strained, despite his grin. Tim couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes. “I thought I heard you moving around. Made some tea for you, if you’d like?” He held out a pair of mugs, and Jon let go of Tim’s arm to accept his.

“Thank you, Martin,” he murmured. Martin seemed a bit startled by the sincerity in his voice.

Tim got it, though. After a month with no food or drink, he didn’t think he could imagine anything more heavenly than Martin’s tea. “Thanks,” he echoed, meeting Martin’s eyes as he took his own cup. He drained it in a few gulps, heedless of the heat.

“Yeah,” Martin said, still sounding taken aback. “Of—of course.”

“Oi!” Melanie stumbled to a halt on her way out of the stacks, backtracking a few steps to call over her shoulder. “Basira! They’re up! Finally,” she added, striding forward. “We stayed late waiting to see if you’d wake yesterday, but no dice. Martin wasn’t kidding when he said you were tired.” She nudged Martin with her elbow as Basira emerged behind her. “Basira and I went home eventually, but I think Martin here actually stayed the night.”

Martin flushed as Jon furrowed his brow, sending him a look through the steam of his tea. “Good heavens, Martin,” he said severely. “Where did you sleep?”

“I, erm,” Martin stammered, flailing a hand in what Tim thought might have been an attempt to be casual. “Well. You know, there are lots of… chairs, and things. I was fine. It was just one night, anyway.”

So Martin hadn’t slept at all, Tim concluded. He made a note to distract Jon before he could give him too much of a hard time, but before he could say anything, Melanie’s eyes snagged on Jon’s jumper.

“Hey,” she exclaimed, stepping closer. Tim watched, all of his movements suddenly too slow for the blur of the world around him, as she reached out to seize his sleeve in her fingers. “That’s my hoodie! Why are you wearing—”

Jon’s mug crashed to the floor and shattered. 

In the next instant, Tim had him shoved behind his back and was snarling in Melanie’s face. “Get the fuck back,” he hissed.

Melanie stepped away, hands raised in the air. Her eyes were wide. “Okay!” She kept steady eye contact with Tim, even as Jon’s fists twisted into the fabric of his undershirt. “Okay! I’m staying right over here. No touching. Got it.”

Basira was looking between Tim, Melanie, and Jon’s bare feet, which were pretty much all she could see of him from behind Tim. There was something shadowed in her gaze. “Jon,” she said hesitantly. “Where…” She seemed to change her mind about something before continuing, “Where have you two been, exactly?”

Jon pressed harder into Tim’s back. Tim clenched his jaw, trying to think straight.

“Hey,” Martin interrupted. His voice was gentle as ever, but there was something steely behind it. “We’re not doing this just yet, okay? Everyone is going to sit down, and we’re going to take a break for a minute. Right?” He glared at Melanie, who nodded fervently, and then Basira, who seemed much more reluctant in her acquiescence. “Good. I’m going to clean up this mess before someone steps in it.”

Melanie squinted, opening her mouth before Basira nudged her and nodded at Jon’s feet. She snapped her jaw shut. “Oh,” she muttered. Her eyes widened. “Oh. Shit.”

Before Tim could even start to untangle what that was about, she made an about-turn, marching to the desk in the farthest corner and dropping herself unceremoniously in the chair behind it. Technically, that desk was supposed to be Basira’s, but as far as Tim knew she’d never used it. Maybe Melanie had taken it over while they were gone.

Basira glanced at Tim one last time before following suit, pulling a chair out from the stacks and settling into it before plucking a folder from the nearest shelf to flip through.

Tim looked at Martin, who only met his eyes for a second before muttering something about getting a broom and practically running down the hall. 

Tim hesitated a moment longer before turning around, untangling his shirt from Jon’s grip with significantly more difficulty than he had last night. 

“Want to sit?” he asked Jon gently. Jon didn’t seem to hear, although it wasn’t the usual lifelessness Tim had been afraid he’d see. Instead, Jon’s eyes were blown wide, breath coming in short, stuttering gasps. As soon as Tim was facing him properly, his hands shot back out to grasp blindly at him again.

Tim swore, and wrapped both arms around him. “It’s okay,” he muttered into the hood that covered Jon’s head. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you, we’re safe now. They’re gone, Jon, it’s okay. It really is, this time. You’re safe.”

After a moment, Jon nodded against his chest, letting out a great, shuddering breath. He sobbed on the inhale, flinching and freezing at the sound. Tim clutched him closer and continued his stream of muttered, meaningless words.

By now, at least, it was a familiar enough routine. 

This time, though, when the shaking stopped, Jon pulled away, steadying himself on his feet. 

“Sorry,” he said quietly. 

Tim grinned at him, which earned him a tired scowl. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he told Jon anyway.

Jon scowled harder, pulled his sleeves down over his hands, and stalked off to find himself a chair.

A month ago, Tim would never have believed how happy it’d make him to see Jon being a bit of a bastard.

It was funny, he thought as he found a seat himself, side-by-side with Jon. 

It was weird. 

The things that could change your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: a few minor instances of conflict/lost temper between characters; towards the end of the chapter there's a panic attack/flashback (and a dish breaks) as the PTSD continues to make itself known
> 
> *  
> Jon is once again Acting Normal Don't Even Worry About It, but he IS also still basically like. emotionally bleeding out on the ground. melanie no don't poke him that's where all the blood is coming from, _melanie wait -_
> 
> Meanwhile:
> 
> Tim in this chapter: we are worrying about jon and jon ONLY. trauma? in MY me? i have no idea how the rest of this meme goes but i'm totally not worried about it


	6. Conciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After lunch, Tim turned on a movie, something Jon thought might have been a children’s show, which opened with an old man reading to his grandchild before delving into the plot of the book. Jon didn’t pay too much attention to the details, settling in on the couch next to Tim and sneaking handfuls of microwave popcorn from the bowl between them. 
> 
> It was enough to let it play in the background, the noise a reminder of where they were. It was enough to taste salt on his tongue instead of soap, and rub the fabric of his sleeves between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for chapter warnings

Martin threw the lock on the bathroom stall and collapsed to his knees, leaning over the toilet. He didn’t think he was going to throw up anymore, but for a moment, when Tim had Jon behind him and that horrific terror written all over his face—well. It had been close. 

He gave himself a few minutes to calm down. The last thing anyone needed was him losing his composure. Later, when he got home, he could cry his eyes out thinking about it. Right now someone needed to keep Melanie from putting her foot in it more than she already had, and Basira certainly didn’t have the patience for that.

That wasn’t fair. He knew Melanie probably hadn’t meant any harm. Actually, if he was honest, she was probably trying to lighten the mood. She just… well, she was better with sharp things than soft ones. More than once, Martin had even wished he could be more like her that way. No one’s eyes slid over Melanie. No one would dare.

Today, though, Martin didn’t think he could bring himself to forgive her jagged edges. Not when they did _that_ to Jon. He sighed, and gave it up for the moment. Best let that particular anger cool off in its own time. 

For now, he needed to pick himself up off the floor and go fetch that broom he’d said he was getting. He took one last breath and left the stall, splashing some water on his face before he crossed the hall to rummage around in the storage closet for what he needed.

When he returned to the main office space, it was to find Melanie scooping a last sodden handful of tea-soaked paper towels into the rubbish bin. She straightened when she saw him, flushing slightly. For a moment it looked like she might say something, but then she turned on her heel and dropped into the chair behind Basira’s desk.

“Um. Thanks,” Martin tried.

“Don’t mention it.” The way she said it made it sound more like a threat than an apology, but Martin was good at reading between the lines. 

The frozen fury in his chest thawed just a little more. 

He swept up the remaining shards on the floor before surveying the room. Jon was curled like a cat in his chair, Tim seated barely half an arm’s length away from him. Basira was across the room at the mouth of the stacks, pretending to read through a statement folder, and Melanie had settled into a sprawling slouch, typing something into her phone. 

“Right,” he muttered, dumping the dustpan out in the bin and marching into the kitchen. He put the kettle back on before snatching up the bag of pastries Basira had delivered when he’d asked her to bring in some food. 

He strode back out and deposited the bag in Tim’s lap. “Breakfast. Eat.” He fixed Jon with a look until he nodded and reached to accept the muffin Tim held out. That done, he returned to the kitchen and waited for the water to boil before making three fresh cups of tea. Technically he could have made just the one, but he was craving something warm and comforting himself now, and he thought, after drinking it so quickly, Tim probably wouldn’t mind some more as well.

Going by the way Tim’s eyes lit up when he accepted the second mug, Martin figured he’d made the right decision. A bit more of the tension pressing on his spine melted away, and he even managed a smile when Jon tried to apologize for the mess.

“No harm done,” he said firmly, and then pulled up a chair for himself. 

“So,” Basira started, discarding the folder she’d been hiding behind. Martin glared, but she glared right back before leaning forward in her seat to address Jon and Tim directly. “What happened?”

Jon tensed a bit at Basira’s bluntness, though it wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting it. Really, he was mainly impressed that she’d waited this long. 

“If you feel up to sharing,” Martin tacked on. He was still looking daggers at Basira, who was pointedly not meeting his gaze. 

Jon was a bit surprised. He’d known Martin was more ferocious than he seemed since the day he’d upended a peach tin full of worms on Jon’s tape recorder, but he hadn’t expected to see that side of him come out over something so minor. Then again, circumstances being what they were, he supposed everyone’s nerves were more than a little frayed.

He cleared his throat. “We,” he started, flinching a bit at the sound of his own voice. He stared resolutely into his mug, letting his hood capture the rising steam to warm his face. He wondered if this should be a statement, and froze up for several more seconds at the thought. Recounting every minute of what had happened in perfect detail, reliving it the way he relived every statement—no. No, they weren’t doing that. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to centre himself. 

“It was the Circus,” Tim said hoarsely when Jon trailed off. “Held us prisoner for the past month.”

Jon wondered if he should feel something about that. He hadn’t known how long they’d been there. A month… was a long time. 

It had felt like so much longer.

“Why?” Basira asked. 

“Does it matter?” Tim countered.

“Yes,” she retorted. “Among other things, we need to know if it’s likely to happen again, or to anyone else.”

A muscle in Tim’s jaw twitched. Jon forced himself to speak before things degenerated. “My skin,” he blurted. “They… the—Nikola, the one in charge of the Unknowing. She, um. She’d visited me a few days earlier, talking about an old piece of taxidermy she was going to use for the ritual. She said she wanted me to find it for her, but. She changed her mind. Said—she said I would work better.”

“She wanted to taxidermy you?” Martin breathed, voice thick with horror.

“No, no,” Jon reassured him hurriedly. “It… I—” he swallowed, and gave up on elaborating. “No.”

“So then why—” Basira started.

“She wanted to skin him,” Tim interrupted flatly. “That’s why.”

Quietly, Melanie swore. Jon knew, suddenly, that she was thinking of Sarah Baldwin. 

“Okay.” Basira’s eyes were narrowed, staring at nothing in particular. “That doesn’t explain why, Tim, you were taken, or how either of you are still alive.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Tim bit out. 

“Breekon and Hope,” Jon added, trying to clarify. “They weren’t sure which of us was which. That’s what they said, at least.”

“And once they figured it out?” Basira pressed. “Why didn’t they kill you right away, or whatever else they do with their victims? Why keep you alive, Tim?”

“To keep him quiet, alright?” Tim snapped. “Is that what you want to hear? They used me as leverage. That’s _all_ I was there for. I just sat around for Nikola to use as a nice, convenient threat whenever she felt like it, so Jon would do what she wanted.”

Jon looked at him, alarmed. Tim’s hands were trembling slightly. He avoided Jon’s eyes.

“When, um.” Melanie’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued. “When you say ‘what she wanted…’”

Jon tugged his sleeves down, setting his teacup in his lap momentarily. “No questions,” he said. A shudder went down his spine, though he tried to suppress it. “No talking, in case…”

“In case a question ‘slipped out,’” Tim finished, something savage in his tone.

Basira was frowning harder than ever, tilting her head a bit like she could make the pieces of a puzzle slot into place by looking at them differently. “Why not just use a gag?”

At that, Jon let out a loud, sharp bark of laughter. He slapped his hands over his mouth, nearly spilling his tea again in his haste to suppress any hysterics.

“They did,” Tim said, and didn’t elaborate. 

Jon recognized the look of half-desperate consternation on Basira’s face. He’d seen it too many times in the past year, whenever he looked in the mirror. “But then _why—”_ she began, voice pitching ever-so-slightly upwards.

“They took it off after the first day,” Jon told her. There was still a strange, giddy bubble in his throat, but he talked around it. 

“Why?” Basira demanded.

Tim was leaning forward, looking half-ready to attack. “It doesn’t matter, Basira, alright? Drop it.”

“Do you know where they were keeping you?” Martin interjected before Basira could keep going. 

“Um.” Jon blinked, trying to switch focus. 

“Some kind of wax museum, I’d guess,” Tim said, more readily. “There were lots of really ugly wax figures around, and like, they were spooky and all, but they weren’t moving on their own or anything, so I think they were probably real. Or, you know. Not supernatural creations bent on ending the world. Whatever.”

“So, what?” Melanie asked. “Should we be looking for a secret basement under Madame Tussauds?”

Jon shook his head. “No, we were definitely above ground. And I think, wherever it was, it seemed more or less abandoned?” He hesitated. “I don’t think the Stranger likes places that are… popular. Busy. It seems more partial to—to empty homes, places that have been hollowed out of what they used to be, or, or maybe what they ought to be.”

A light went on in Tim’s eyes. “Ghost buildings,” he muttered. 

“Okay, so we’re looking for an abandoned wax museum,” Basira summarized, pressing her lips together but skipping past her earlier questions for now. “Any idea of what area we should be targeting?”

Jon shrugged apologetically, but Tim offered, “Somewhere within, er, maybe an hour’s drive of Bridgewater Square. I don’t think we made too many turns, but I wasn’t paying super close attention.”

Basira nodded, making a note in her phone. 

“We done?” Tim looked on edge.

“How did you get out?” Basira persisted, looking back up.

Tim sighed. “Michael,” he said, at the same time as Jon murmured, “Helen.”

“The Distortion,” Jon added, picking up the thread of the conversation. “It… Michael appeared, made a statement, and said he was going to kill us. But then—I don’t know exactly what happened. It—stopped being Michael? Or Michael just… stopped being? And now the Distortion is, er, Helen Richardson. Sort of.”

“She let us walk through the door straight into the tunnels down here,” Tim finished. He rose to his feet. “That’s it. Now, if you don’t mind, both of us could really use a shower and, like, some actual sunlight.” He stared at the other three, daring any of them to push. No one did. “Great! Come on, Jon.” 

He offered a hand to help Jon extricate himself from his chair, and Jon took it, though he was careful only to use it for balance. Tim’s shoulders were starting to look visibly bruised. Jon wondered if he should be getting some sort of medical attention. 

Maybe Jon would bring it up as a suggestion. Later. When Tim looked less like he was about to shake apart himself.

Martin walked them to the Institute doors, hesitating before they left. “Are you sure you two will be alright?”

Tim started to shrug, then winced. “We’ll take the tube to my place, not too much walking otherwise, so it’ll probably be fine. Plus, I filched Melanie’s taser. Not sure what it’d do to a Stranger, but it’s better than nothing, right?” He held up the taser in question, clicking it demonstratively.

“Tim…” Jon sighed. 

“What?” Tim feigned offense. “I’ll give it back tomorrow. No harm, no foul, right?”

Jon just shook his head. He knew he really should raise more of an objection, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than guiltily relieved. Breekon and Hope, at least, seemed to be more or less flesh and blood. Like Tim said, it was, at the very least, better than nothing.

Martin was looking a bit stricken. “I didn’t even think—God, would they try to recapture you? Should you even be leaving? If you aren’t safe—”

“I _just_ told you, we’ve got a taser,” Tim said. He sounded like he was aiming for flippant, but his voice sounded strained. “Plus, if we stay here another thirty seconds I _will_ start punching things. Probably Elias. Actually—”

“Right, okay,” Martin cut him off hurriedly. “I, um. I get that. Just… be safe, okay?”

Tim gave him a thumbs-up, clicking the taser once more before stowing it back in his pocket. “Will do.”

The journey to Tim’s flat was, thankfully, uneventful. The worst that happened was Jon’s feet getting a bit scuffed up, despite how careful he was to avoid stepping in anything unpleasant. Tim offered to let him use the shower first when they arrived, but Jon declined. 

He knew he would need to clean up eventually. He just… wasn’t ready to shed Georgie’s old _What the Ghost_ hoodie quite yet. Or, not Georgie’s, apparently, although it fit the same way her jumpers usually did. He wondered if Melanie was closer with her than he’d realized, or if she just happened to be a fan of the podcast and oversized pullovers. Either way, the hoodie was comfortable, and felt familiar enough against his skin.

Anyway. It wasn’t like he wasn’t _clean._

Jon shook himself, trying to focus on the soup Tim had him stirring while he washed up. He’d need to add the pasta in a few minutes, according to the recipe in front of him. It seemed straightforward enough. 

By the time Tim emerged from the WC, dressed in a pair of grey joggers and a fresh pink button-up, Jon had discovered that it was possible to over-stir this particular soup. At least, he assumed that was the problem. In any case, the result was significantly runnier than the recipe had implied. Tim laughed at his consternation. 

“We’ll just add more cheese before it cools,” Tim said when he’d finished poking fun at him. “You can’t go wrong with a bit of extra parmesan, anyway.”

Jon wrinkled his nose on principle, but upon tasting the finished product, he had to admit Tim’s slapdash fix seemed to work well enough. Of course, that might have been the hunger talking. Jon hadn’t realized how famished he felt until he’d scarfed down two servings of soup, scalding his tongue a bit and making Tim laugh at him again. 

After lunch, Tim turned on a movie, something Jon thought might have been a children’s show, which opened with an old man reading to his grandchild before delving into the plot of the book. Jon didn’t pay too much attention to the details, settling in on the couch next to Tim and sneaking handfuls of microwave popcorn from the bowl between them. 

It was enough to let it play in the background, the noise a reminder of where they were. It was enough to taste salt on his tongue instead of soap, and rub the fabric of his sleeves between his fingers.

It was enough.

Also, it was funny to watch Tim mouth all of the lines. This was apparently one of his favourite films. He kept nudging Jon, gesturing along with the actors during particularly dramatic scenes and adding explanations whenever he thought Jon didn’t get what was happening.

It wasn’t exactly Jon’s taste in cinema, but Tim’s enthusiasm was rather contagious. He even caught himself feeling disappointed when Tim skipped over a few scenes, although he summarized them succinctly enough. Jon spluttered a bit when Tim explained that the second scene he skipped was when “evil prince dude murders hero guy,” which just made Tim laugh at him _again._

Jon didn’t think it was funny. Tim told him to have a little faith in happy endings. Jon informed him that he didn’t think that was funny, either. 

“Hey, watch it!” Tim flicked a piece of popcorn at Jon’s forehead. “Don’t knock the power of true love, you cynic. Not everything’s all grim spooky monsters.”

“If you say so,” Jon grumbled.

Tim chucked another popcorn kernel at him. Spitefully, Jon ate it.

After the movie ended, Tim switched to some comedy special, settling further back in his seat. They passed the afternoon that way, in a companionable sort of quiet suffused with the background babble of ordinary television. 

When dinnertime came around, Tim ordered takeaway from his favourite restaurant, saying ruefully that he didn’t feel up to facing the inside of his fridge just yet. It didn’t escape Jon’s notice that he took the taser with him when the food arrived and he got up to answer the door.

“Tim,” he said hesitantly, during a lull in conversation as they neared the end of the meal. “I… you know I’d have done—if I could’ve stopped them from—I should never have asked you to meet with me when I knew it was dangerous.”

Tim was shaking his head, an echo of that old anger crossing his face. Jon pressed on hurriedly before he could say anything. “I’m sorry. I can’t say anything that could make up for it, but I’m still—I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Tim snapped. “Just—don’t do that, okay? It wasn’t your fucking fault. _I_ was the one who made you come out to—to some stupid restaurant because it was just _easier_ for me to blame you than face reality. Trust me, I’ve gone over this every night for the past thirty-seven days. It was my fault. I _know._ Okay? But you don’t hear me apologizing, because God knows some things don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

Jon stared at him for a second before remembering himself, dropping his gaze to his plate. “Oh,” he whispered. 

There was silence for a moment. Then Tim groaned. Jon looked up to see him starting to raise his hands to his head before wincing and laying them on the table. “Not like…” Tim sighed. “Look, when… Everything that’s happened this past year, it’s insane. I was—I kind of thought you were… I don’t know. I guess that was the problem, really. I _didn’t know._ Like, stalking me wasn’t cool, and I think you know that,” Tim fixed him with a look, and Jon nodded rapidly, “but. The thing that really made me angry was… was that it was fair. Like, you turned out to be right! Sasha was some evil monster conspiring to kill us all, and you were the only one who actually clued in about it. It didn’t—it didn’t _seem fair._ And then with Leitner, and I felt like… I didn’t know if you’d done it. I didn’t… _know_ you anymore. I didn’t know that I ever really had, and then when you were finally cleared it was just because you were _also_ some kind of monster, like Elias, though God knows what’s up with him, and it…” Tim dropped his head in his hands, propping his elbows on the table. “It wasn’t fair,” he muttered plaintively. He bent his head further so he could push his fingers through his hair. “I felt like I was losing everything,” he said, finally looking back up to meet Jon’s eyes, “and it was easier to blame it on you, because… because it felt like you were the first thing I lost, the one that started everything else. And you were _still there._ ”

Jon gripped the edge of the table, trying to process all of that. He had no idea what to say. 

“But the worst thing,” Tim went on, and suddenly his face did something that was painful for Jon to look at, “the _worst_ thing is that it wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t gone anywhere, or—you know what I mean. You hadn’t turned into someone else. Even the fucking tape recorders, that wasn’t—it was just _you._ I just couldn’t _see_ it. So I didn’t lose you, but I sure goddamn tried, and how fucked up is that? I tried so hard I almost got us both killed. I got—I—”

To Jon’s absolute horror, Tim’s voice broke. Before he knew what he was doing, Jon was on the other side of the table, hands fluttering helplessly as he tried to decide if this was a situation that called for hugging. Tim’s eyes were squeezed shut, wetness escaping out the corners, and he didn’t seem to notice Jon beside him. 

Jon huffed, gathering his nerve, and hesitantly put his arms around Tim’s shoulders. 

Tim startled, but before Jon could pull away, he wrapped him in a bear hug himself. “I’m sorry,” Tim mumbled into his collarbone. “It wasn’t fair.” He hiccupped in a breath, and repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Jon hugged him back, as tightly as he could, and thought about _fair_ and _fault_ and _sorry_ for a while, until Tim had cried himself out. 

“Sometimes,” Jon said slowly, when Tim pulled away and Jon settled himself back into a seat beside him, “some things can’t be forgiven because… because they couldn’t have been stopped. Maybe it doesn’t matter whose fault something was. I don’t—I don’t know if it was anyone’s.” He snorted. “Elias’, maybe. You’d think he’d have at least said something, the all-seeing bastard. But—my point is. It wasn’t… yours? It was fair for you not to trust me, and to want to talk on your own terms. Sometimes awful things just _happen,_ and there’s—there’s no way to see it coming. Maybe there isn’t anyone, really, to blame. I don’t know. But…” Jon reached out and caught the edge of Tim’s sleeve, tugging gently to keep his attention. “I know I don’t blame _you._ And I’m—I’m still sorry you got caught up in… well, in all of this, all of—you know—but. I’m glad you were there, even if I wish you hadn’t been. Selfishly, I mean. I’m glad you were there. You kept me sane.” Jon dropped his hand and his gaze to his lap. “I don’t know—I don’t want to think about what it would have been like if I’d been alone.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tim said quietly.

“You kept me sane,” Jon repeated. “And—what you said to Basira earlier—if you weren’t there, Nikola would just have found another threat to keep me from asking anything. There are a lot of things you can threaten a person with, that don’t hurt their skin, you know? I thought about that a lot. Worried a lot that it would occur to her, but it never seemed to. At least, I mean, when it was you, at least there was a _point._ At least it wasn’t just my own cowardice keeping me quiet.” Jon shook his head. “I don’t know if that makes sense, I’m sure it’s not—well, not fair—but. I’m glad, that’s all. Grateful, I suppose.”

Tim was silent for a long time. Finally, he pushed his chair back and drifted to his feet. “This is all so screwed up,” he muttered. Jon coughed out a laugh.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he agreed.

“I don’t know how to fix it.” Tim said. For a moment, he looked so lost, standing next to the table with his hands by his sides.

“Maybe it can’t be fixed,” Jon said softly.

“I hate that.”

“I know. Me too.”

Tim looked at him, eyes still red with tears. “I can’t live like this, Jon. I can’t—there has to be _something._ There has to be some way of stopping it.”

Jon exhaled slowly. “If there is, we’ll find it,” he said, and it came out as a promise.

Tim was still for a moment more before he nodded. “We’ll find it,” he repeated, and it came out like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: vomiting mention, discussion of lotion-related trauma (bare-bones summary that does not go into literally Any detail except what the other characters absolutely need to know), food cw, uhh more discussions about trauma, discussions about blame, and some light emotional breakdowns
> 
> …
> 
> Now, if I had enough artistic integrity, this is probably where I'd end the fic. I'd just add the following paragraphs:
>
>> They cleared the table and washed the dishes, and without discussing it, went straight to bed. Jon thought about saying he’d sleep on the couch, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Not now. Not tonight.
>> 
>> They curled up together the way they had in the cot in the Archives, and Jon let himself pretend that for once, everything would be alright.
>> 
>> Maybe they couldn’t stop any of it. But at least, when the next tragedy came, they wouldn’t have to face it alone.
> 
> because LOOK. sometimes there really isn't anything anyone can do. sometimes tragedy just _happens,_ and if i was a decent writer i would let that message stand, because it's an important one.
> 
> However.
> 
> Okay, I think the actual podcast does a great job delivering that message, and what on EARTH is the point of fanfiction if you aren't going to give fictional people the happy ending they deserve and couldn't get in canon or real life? As a certain movie with skippable scenes for traumatized kidnappees puts it, "life is pain," but that doesn't mean our stories have to be. Yknow?
> 
> Anyway, hackneyed artistry or not, tune in next time for some egregious butchery of the vehicle we call "canon" in defiant defense of wish-fulfillment fantasies, including-but-not-limited-to the promise of a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Leave a kudos for your writer if you made it this far, and if you're so inclined drop a comment below! I love to hear what y'all think (even and especially if it's entirely incoherent) <3


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